Day 3: On knowing when to stop
Route: River Falls, Wisconsin, to Lake City, Minnesota
Distance: 71 mile
One word was spray painted across the pavement in a once-bright, now-fading orange at the bottom of the hill.
“Ouch.”
My guess is that it was a warning for cyclists on this popular route of what lay ahead: a long, steady climb to a bluff on the Wisconsin side of the Mississippi River at the start of what is called Lake Pepin.
There was nothing to do but put my head down and slowly turn the pedals. The relatively cool morning gave way to an increasingly hot day. I thought about how far I was going to try to get that day. At 6 foot 4 inches tall and weighing a little (sometimes more than a little) over 200 pounds, I am not built to climb hills on a bicycle. In spite of it, in the 10 years or so that I’ve been riding with regularity and living in hilly Duluth, Minnesota, I find that I enjoy climbing. That’s why I chose the route I did.
That morning, I had started my ride in River Falls, Wisconsin, with a new route in mind. I had learned that my wife and son were going to be spending the upcoming Fourth of July weekend over at my mother-in-law’s house in Audubon, Minnesota. So, rather than loop east and into Wisconsin, I was now going to go in the opposite direction, dropping south along the Great River Road before crossing the Mississippi at Nelson, Wisconsin, and heading north along the river in northwesterly direction following a route called the Mississippi River Trail.
In general, I have found that in spite of giving myself permission not to, I still ride too far each day. In doing so, I often pass by places where I should stop, linger and explore. It is called touring after all.
There are plenty of bike riders out there who strive to be like Jessop, the young man I met the day before who tests his body and his mental stamina by attempting things on his bicycle that, ultimately, few people can achieve. They ride to challenge themselves and their bodies, which means they often ride in groups and compete in races and events where the goal is to measure their own performance both against their abilities and others. Their goal is to push themselves beyond what even they think they can achieve.
When I started to really focus on bike riding (my body was getting too old for soccer and basketball and the other sports I loved), this is the kind of riding I attempted as well. Encouraged by some very strong cyclist-friends in Duluth, I came out for early morning group rides and eventually competed (that’s not an accurate word for how I performed) in long-distance endurance races like the Heck of North, a 100-mile plus endurance race on gravel roads and trails in Minnesota’s north woods.
This kind of riding made me very fit and very strong. Riding with others pushed me to ride outside my comfort zones and put my body into distress. The stronger I got, the more I craved the kind of suffering that comes with this kind of riding.
When I did my first bike tour a few years ago, I ruined it, in some ways, by approaching it in this same manner. I borrowed a bike trailer from a friend, loaded it (overloaded it by about 10 to 20 pounds, I now realize) and took off on a bike ride to Madison, Wisconsin. I had leave from work at the time so there was no rush; yet, I still decided to push myself to ride as far as I could each day and a little beyond that. In the end, I rode 400 miles over the course of four days.
The last day, I estimate that I rode upwards of 130 miles, which may be the longest I’ve ridden in one day. I remember toward the end of that day being lost in Madison in the dark as my friend who had ridden out to meet me and I tried to find our way back to his house and feeling a combination of complete exhaustion, euphoria and a sense (a false one, I’m sure) that I could keep riding forever if I wanted to.
In the past five years or more, I’ve competed in a fair number of long-distance endurance races. For a time, I was competitive in these events, able to stay with the fastest riders for at least part of the time. It felt good to challenge myself, but I also remember that I never felt satisfied at the end of the race. I always felt like I could have gone a little faster.
The appeal to me of bike touring is that, as the name suggests, it’s not a race. In New York Times writer Bruce Webber’s account of his own bike tour across the country, he documents how his goal each day was to ride in the morning and stop in the early afternoon no matter the number of miles he had ridden; he came to learn on his trip that any more riding would just be miserable and unpleasant.
As much as that approach appeals to me, I still can’t say that I’ve been able to embrace it. As I rode along the Mississippi, I started the day feeling at peace and savoring the beauty of this stretch of road. I took pictures of cows and daylilies. When I saw a quiet, downtown street off the main road, I stopped and went down along the river and sat in a swinging chair that looked out across Lake Pepin. I called my mother to wish her happy birthday and watched swallows swoop down across the placid, glassy water.
I felt like I was getting into the rhythm of the ride. Of course, mornings often feel that way. But as the day progressed, and the temperature went up, my willingness to stop went down. I found myself stopping less often and rushing through a stretch that I now realize was the most scenic of the entire trip.
I barely touched my brakes as I rolled through the community of Stockholm, Wisconsin, even though I could see that it was a freshly painted, historic river town with quaint shops and, I would later learn, some really great pie.
By 2 p.m. I found myself hiding from the sun outside a convenience store, sucking down a sports drink and eating one of those pre-made sandwiches that come in the triangular plastic containers. I was spent but was determined to make it south, down the Wisconsin side, across the river and back up into Minnesota to Lake City in order to stay on schedule. The latter part of the day became a painful slog as I forced myself to put in the miles to my destination. I grudgingly forced myself to stop and take a few pictures as I crossed the Mississippi.
And herein lies the good and the bad of suffering.
The bad of suffering is that it is often self inflicted and can be avoided when giving in to the moment and being content where you are with what you are doing. Bike touring, and travel in general, offer the chance to let go of agendas, timelines, plans and let life happen. Too often, I refuse this opportunity.
The good of suffering is that after a day where the bad moments feel unending and the miles seem never to go down, everything is more enjoyable. The hotel room I decided I had earned with a view across Lake Pepin of the hills I had ridden that day (and an air conditioner) felt lavish. The swim in Lake Pepin as the sun set was soothing. The sense that I had pushed myself to go a little farther was satisfying.
The next day would not be.
Day 4: Thunderstorms, bacon on a doughnut, and misery
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